


Sociolinguistics

by Ferith12



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-26
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:55:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27718486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ferith12/pseuds/Ferith12
Summary: In a little beerhouse recently sprung up beside the tracks of the no longer quite sparkling, but still new train through Uberwald, two men selected a rather dimly lit corner for themselves.  One was tall, thin, and late-middle-aged, the other was entirely unremarkable.
Relationships: Moist von Lipwig & Havelock Vetinari
Comments: 12
Kudos: 30





	Sociolinguistics

In a little beerhouse recently sprung up beside the tracks of the no longer quite sparkling, but still new train through Uberwald, two men selected a rather dimly lit corner for themselves. One was tall, thin, and late-middle-aged, the other was entirely unremarkable.

“Why don’t you go buy us our drinks,” suggested the older man. He was, unbeknownst to all but his companion, Lord Vetinari, the Tyrant of Ankh-Morpork, so his suggestion wasn’t really one.

“Me?” said the other man, who was among the select few who asked questions when Lord Vetinari made suggestions. His name, unfortunately, was Moist.

“You needn’t  _ pay _ , of course,” Vetinari said, handing him a small money purse.

Moist looked as if he was on the verge of saying something, possibly beginning with the word “but”, his eyes were slightly wider than usual in a way that would, to someone who knew him well (which now totalled at least two) have communicated panic. But then he walked wordlessly to the bar where an old man was distributing drinks.

Vetinari wondered vaguely what Moist could be panicking about. The patrician adored playing mind games, and he could never decide whether he was more amused or annoyed at Moist’s insistence on perceiving mind games that weren’t actually there.

The ambient noise was fairly high, so Vetinari couldn’t hear what was being said, but he watched as Moist leaned casually against the counter and engaged the old proprieter in what appeared to be lively and friendly conversation.

After some few minutes of this, Moist returned with their drinks, looking more as if he had been made to fight a lion than perform a simple business transaction.

“This is the best beer in the house,” Moist said, “Not the stuff that’s marked up the most and gets  _ called  _ the best, but the actual best.”

Moist returned Vetinari’s purse, and he saw that it was hardly depleted at all.

“I see that you have worked your usual magic,” Vetinari said, taking a sip of the excellent beer.

Moist shrugged, residual panic crinkling a little around his eyes.

“Turns out the old man grew up near Lipwig so of course he practically adopted me. Pure luck, really. He could have been from  _ Rotweil _ .”

For a moment Lord Vetinari was puzzled by this. Obviously Moist hadn’t given his real name, and he could think of no reason he would reveal his hometown, much less be  _ compelled _ to.

Ah, Vetinari realized, of course. It was the accent.

Accents. Everyone had them, even, technically, Moist von Lipwig. Or rather, Moist had several. One for every town and every name he wore like a child playing dress-up. In Ankh-Morpork, his accent varied slightly depending on who he was talking to. It was always some variety of Middle-Class, and some variety of Ankh-Morporkian, but there are many ways in which one can be middle-class, and many senses in which one can be Ankh-Morporkian. Sometimes the accent rose from lower beginnings, sometimes it decended from higher ones, sometimes it hinted at country origins, and sometimes it had Quirmian grandparents. The standard Man in the Golden Suit accent was Ankh-Morporkian born and bred. It was Upper-Middle-Class in a flashy sort of way that was trying just a little too hard to hide the fact that it once wasn’t middle-class at all. The accent that Moist used to speak to Vetinari was best described as well-behaved. It was middle-middle-class, perfectly comfortable and entirely unremarkable, the accent of someone born to the most humdrum of mediocrity and had never once so much as considered becoming anything else. It was almost aggressively Ankh-Morporkian, but in times of stress it slipped almost imperceptibly Uberwaldianward, and Vetinari could never quite decide whether it did so involuntarily, or because Moist thought Vetinari expected it to.

He had often wondered if Adora Belle Dearheart had ever heard the Morporkian of the real Mr. Lipwig, but he was beginning to doubt that such a thing existed. Moist von Lipwig has learned Unerwaldian in order to speak, but Albert Spangler had learned Morporkian in order to con.

That was the crux of the problem, though, wasn’t it. Moist had never learned to be a conman in Uberwald. In Ankh-Morpork, he could climb, dance, and do handstands all up and down the socioeconomic ladder, he could write entire backstories with the way he pronounced his vowels. But in Uberwald he could only sound exactly like what he was, a decently well-educated man who grew up in the area of Lipwig.

No wonder, then, that he had returned from a simple conversation looking as though he had been bared naked down to his very soul. By Moist von Lipwig standards, he had been.

The Patrician smiled. “We should do this more often,” he said, “It’s good for you.”


End file.
